


THE OTHER PERKS OF SECOND CHANCES

by strangethetimes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Childhood Trauma, Eddie Kaspbrak Deserves Nice Things, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Angst, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier Works Through His Issues, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Stanley Uris Lives, Unbury Your Gays, idk man i just work here, if i missed anything just lemme know and i'll tag it, ya know all the usual canon shit we deal with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangethetimes/pseuds/strangethetimes
Summary: after facing off with IT and barely making it out alive, Richie and Eddie decide to find and take all the missed opportunities in their lives.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Reddie - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. you didn't paint it very well

**Author's Note:**

> is it too late for a fix-it? probably. am i still gonna write one? abso-fuckin-lutely.  
> so, okay, i’m using the canons in the novel and all the adaptations in a Frankenstein-esque mash-up for this, including one thing from an OG script that got scrapped (try sayin’ that 3x fast). it’s still the 1980s-2010s time period from the recent films and you’ll figure out the rest as you read but i felt like i should give a heads-up ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, “I am falling to the floor crying,” but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well.”  
> — Richard Siken

**JUNE 2016**

The glass walls let in masses of gleaming light, refracting off the other starch white walls in a way that blinds anyone who looks at it head-on. The furniture doesn’t help, all primary colors too bright by a few shades. At any other time and for any other reason, it’d be calming. They flew Eddie into the best-ranked hospital in Maine after the most threatening damage was taken care of. He couldn’t get better care unless they left the state, but it still doesn’t help things feel any better. Despite several hours' worth of surgeries to keep him from immediate death, there's no solace in what Derry’s hospital did; there are more things that have to be done, more ways he has to be saved.

Richie has been staring at the doors for hours, the sight is ingrained into the insides of his eyelids and it mocks him every time he blinks. Whenever someone walks by and he catches a glimpse from the small window panes, his stomach drops. He’s been trying to prepare himself for when someone walks out to tell them the bad news, to tell them that Eddie’s dead. It’s worse than the drive, two hours of speeding down the highway to reach the hospital as soon as physically possible.

They’ve all been waiting, it manifests in different ways. Ben watches the midday judge programs on television, trying to ignore the pixel-like appearance and lagging subtitles. Bill hasn’t been able to sit still, pacing up and down the rows of chairs and dragging his hand along the shoulders of each Loser to let them know he’s there. Mike has spiraled into a deep wormhole of Wikipedia articles on his phone, pretending that new information about coral polyps can distract him. Sometimes, he looks up to tell Stan something particularly interesting before he remembers he’s not going to be there. Beverly has taken on the mothering role again, like she always does, and tries to get them to eat, drink, and nap while never doing it herself.

It takes a long time of weird glances from passersby before they remember how they must look, but they can’t bring themselves to care. Why should stiff, stained clothing matter? Who gives a shit about the stale dirt smell? It’s too fresh in their minds to focus on anything else, it’s all Eddie — bloody, broken Eddie who they last saw barely clinging to life, let alone consciousness. The last thing he said fills each tick of the clock.

_Don’t call me Eds. You know I...I…  
_

Beverly can’t take the silence anymore. From the others? Sure, she can probably cope. From Richie? She can’t take another second without hearing him run his mouth, it just reminds her of what’s happening. The waiting room’s soft and airy playlist of classical music is worthless in easing her nerves. She wants things to be normal, or as close as they ever got to normal with the Losers.

“You should sit down.” Her fingers curl around the bottom of Bill’s shirt and he stops pacing, lost without the distraction. He lets her lead him to a chair but his leg bounces with the energy he can’t rid himself of.

“Do you guys wanna go to a hotel and get cleaned up?” Ben asks. He lifts the hem of his shirt to smell it, as if it could be anything good, and makes a face after the smallest inhale.

“No,” Richie shakes his head, “I’m not leaving.”

“It’ll be a bit before we hear anything,” Bill says. His stutter is missing. IT is truly gone, or so they hope. They won’t go back even if that’s not the case, not after this. Oath be damned, they can’t lose another one.

“You don’t know that,” he mumbles. Beverly puts her hand on his knee and he shakes his head again, a little more adamant. If there’s bad news, it might not be a bit. If there’s bad news, their Eddie is gone and the doctors could come through the doors at any second to tell them that.

“We can switch off.” Mike breaks the silence.

“I should be here when he dies.” Richie doesn’t add the next word, but everyone thinks it. _Again._ His gaze fixes on the doors again and he feels Beverly pinch his leg.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Why? How much worse can it get?”

“Richie,” she starts, but she closes her mouth instead of going on. She thinks she might like the silence better — at least classical music doesn’t remind her of growing probabilities.

“I’ve seen it and I know you have too,” he says, eyes glazed over with tears. He hasn’t let himself cry since getting here, no matter how much it’s killing him. “Maybe it wasn’t like this but it still happened.” He wasn’t fast enough. He remembers it all and it blisters into his skin like a branding. The deadlights, hitting the ground, Eddie leaning over him, and the mere seconds he had to yank him away. He wasn’t fast enough, IT’s claw still went through him, only more to the side.

Richie knows he did do _something._ Eddie didn’t die in the cavern, not as he did in the visions. But, it isn’t enough to know because he isn’t sure _._ Eddie could still die. He could be dead right now, and a doctor could burst through those doors at any minute to tell them that IT got the last laugh.

“The deadlights,” she whispers. Bill, Mike, and Ben’s hands find Richie too. He can feel them on his shoulders, his arms, his torso, his face. It’s comforting, for a moment, until all he can focus on are the hands still missing — Stan and Eddie’s hands. How could he have forgotten two of the most important people in the world to him? Why did he have to lose them after he finally remembered them again? Is it karma? The universe’s sick joke? Somewhere, deep in his chest, there’s gratefulness that lurches regardless. He still has four of them. Four is better than zero.

“What did we say happened?” His body crumples against the uncomfortable chair. Things feel like a nightmare. _Maybe I’m still in the deadlights,_ he thinks. A sinister, ice-cold feeling creeps up his spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, and he feels sick.

“The earthquake brought the house down on him,” Mike says, slowly scrolling through Wikipedia and unable to tear his attention away. He’s on an article about involuntary memory. How ironic.

“What a shitty epitaph,” Richie mutters.

“Knock it off.” Beverly pinches his leg again, the fire of her hair burning bright in her eyes, but he can’t stop.

“Here lies Eddie Kaspbrak, murdered by a—” Then, the doors open and he chokes on his words. A nurse walks out, chart tight in her hand, and she looks downright exhausted. She goes to the desk, talks to the person behind it, and waits while they type something on the computer. Richie thinks he might throw up or pass out (or both, if he’s unlucky enough). For a second, one that makes him feel pathetic, he wants to pray. If by some miracle he lives, Richie will never call him Eds again.

“Richie,” someone calls. He doesn’t answer them, not even bothering to look up and see whose voice it is. He thinks it might be Mike, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the blood underneath his nails long enough to check. Someone says his name again and he still doesn’t look up, not until Beverly pinches his leg for the third time.

“Are you Richard Tozier?” a new voice asks, one he’s never heard before. He’s about to spew out the same thing he always does when fans come up to him in public, but it dies on his lips when he finally looks up and sees the tired nurse. He thinks she introduces herself as Jeanie but doesn’t quite catch it. He scrambles to his feet and tries to look presentable before remembering he’s covered in literal shit and blood.

“Yes.” His voice isn’t his own anymore, he doesn’t recognize it so strangled and stretched thin. He can’t make himself ask. He doesn’t want to know the answer if it’s bad. This fear is worse than one IT could ever inspire.

“We need you to make a decision, Edward’s condition is severe. His doctors suggest keeping him on life support. Because of the trauma his body’s gone through, it’s difficult for him to function on his own.” Her eyes, which Richie notices are rather pretty, fall to the chart in her hands. He wonders how many times a day she has to have this conversation. Maybe that’s why she’s so tired. “Is this something that he’s discussed with you?”

“You have to call his wife, she’s...” He looks to the Losers for help, but they have nothing. No one knows how to contact Myra. Nobody really wants to either, he’s said enough about her — _reacted_ enough — for them to understand what kind of person she is.

“You’re his emergency contact,” Probably-Jeanie says. She delves into all the injuries before he can react: a collapsed lung, some shattered ribs, torn dorsi and abdominal oblique muscles (Richie didn’t even know those were things that existed), and a concussion. The surgeons in Derry removed his spleen — too damaged to save — and his stomach is full of stitches. Richie can't begin to imagine the conniption Sonia would have if she were alive to hear this, he's about to have one himself.

“Okay,” he says, “whatever they think is best.” His voice is soft but the screaming in his head is deafening. Richie turns and all he can do is glance at Beverly, at all of the Losers, and try not to break any more than he already has. This time he doesn’t feel pathetic, he prays and he prays to every god he can think of. He’s drowning in information he’s not sure he could grasp even if he was in the right frame of mind.

She lets him ask questions, no matter how many he words only slightly different than previous ones, and has another nurse confirm that he understands the things he’s signing off on. He keeps looking back at the Losers, incomplete, and can barely hold the pen when Probably-Jeanie hands it to him. Once the papers are signed, she disappears behind the doors again with no more words to say.

Richie stays frozen where he is, standing at the edge of the waiting room with a thousand-yard stare. He knows better than to subject himself to hope and, yet, a flicker is there in his chest. A soft, glowing flicker that makes him feel warm, if only for a second. It reminds him of Eddie’s smile. Unharmed, safe, breathing Eddie.

“Why was I…” He doesn’t feel like he’s talking. He _knows_ he is, but he isn't meaning to. An unfiltered and uncontrolled mouth, same as ever. “Emergency contact.” It’s as much as he can explain and they know what he means anyway. No one can bring themselves to ask out loud because they all know he did it in Derry.

Eddie was prepared to die and, more than that, he was sure that Richie would outlive him. Richie tries not to think about it, or at all, but his head is too loud a place. He finally understands what Eddie’s mind must be like, the hard-wired hypochondriac obsessed with all the things that can go wrong. The more he thinks, the more he wonders how things ever manage to go right.

“C’mere.” Beverly pulls him back into his seat, quietly coaxing him into finishing his thought. Her nail polish is chipped and her creamy skin is riddled with bruises. He wants to ask but can’t. They all know, just from the small snippet seen of Tom’s red, angry face screaming with pure hatred and the terror in her eyes when she realized he’d followed her into the sewers. All Richie could think about was how badly he wanted to feel Tom's bones break under his hands, and thoughts going through his head like that should've scared him, but he didn't care. He didn’t have to know him for longer than that to be happy to see him drop dead and get devoured by IT — none of them did.

A while later, Probably-Jeanie comes back and says Richie can see Eddie in the ICU, but that he has to be cleaned up first; something about bacteria and potential infections, a sentence he can almost perfectly hear with Eddie’s voice. At first, he doesn’t know how to respond, but a kick in the shin from Ben is all the prompting he needs to agree. The prospect of seeing Eddie gives him no excuse to refuse getting cleaned up, so he lets the Losers drag him along to the hotel they find. He’s ushered into the bathroom to shower first while they unpack for him, thankful he kept his car ready to go. They’ll have to drive back to Derry for Eddie’s stuff.

He drives back to the hospital alone and finds his way to the ICU. A different nurse takes his information for visiting hours, tells him the rules, and leads him back; they weave through busy hallways and his knees almost give out when they reach the room. Eddie is _there._

They give him a moment alone and he doesn’t listen to much of the rest before pulling up a chair to sit by the bed. Machines beep and whir and buzz, each sound digs into his skin. He wants to look anyway — blanched skin, bandages, and bags beneath his eyes.

A doctor knocks after a few minutes, explaining a lot of the same things Probably-Jeanie said, and leaves a short while after. When he’s alone again, curtains pulled shut and the door closed, he grabs Eddie’s hand. He remembers the last time that he did, with bleeding palms and a watch beeping like the heart monitor. The memory burns like bile in his throat and he finally lets himself cry.

⬥⬩⬥⬩⬥

Mike forces Richie to leave after three straight days of sitting in the same plastic chair. He tries to make him feel better about it and says the staff would only ask him to leave soon, having already stayed well past visiting hours since arriving, but it isn’t much of a comfort. Richie knows from his parents’ passing that they forgo visiting hours when it’s probable the patient will die at any moment. Regardless, he holes up in the hotel room and attempts to do _something._

His appetite is gone, buried beneath nausea and dizziness that, admittedly, is caused by not eating for days. And sleep? As much as the Losers had hoped to get him to rest for the first time since getting to Portland, they must know it can’t happen easily. What little he’s gotten, just small bursts of shallow sleep adding up to less than five hours over the last seventy-two, has been horror-filled. Being awake is the only thing that can stop the nightmares.

The other Losers, as far as Richie can tell, don’t get them nearly as bad. He’s sure it’s the deadlights, that he’s somehow still stuck in them — forever suspended above the jagged rock with blood floating up his face and three white-hot spotlights beating down on his body. There are only two ways for him to be positive that he isn’t trapped: sleep deprivation and drinking. So, he’ll pick both whenever he can.

A hot shower dissipates some of the aches in his back and a substantial amount of whiskey helps him to stop noticing the rest leftover. He charges his phone, for the first time in a week, and the missed notifications pour in by the hundreds. Calls, texts, emails — he gets too many to count.

Some are from Feiyan, his assistant, who’s ever curious and concerned. Most of them are from his manager, still furious at him for walking out on a show. The recent ones are more worried than angry, pleas to respond and just say he’s alive. Guilt runs thick in his veins and it makes him call. Peter picks up after the first ring.

“Hey, I’m sorry for—”

“Rich, where the _fuck_ have you been? Do you realize how huge this fucking shit you pulled is? Of all the reckless crap you could’ve done, you picked something that’ll fuck over your career. I should’ve fuckin’ known when you asked for a drink, if this is some mid-life crisis coke bender bullshit, I’m gonna wring your goddamn neck.” He screams for a while about broken contracts, owed money, career damage, and audience response. Richie lets him, too overwhelmed to care and too familiar with Peter’s sailor-like vocabulary to be intimidated by it. In any other situation, he’d probably be worried. But, now, he doesn’t get the point.

“You better have a great goddamn fucking reason for this shit. Where the fuck are you?”

“Maine.” He can’t make himself say more, not yet, knowing that Peter has to get the anger out of his system first. Then, he’ll be able to listen. That’s how it always is with him.

“That’s it? You forget your set halfway through the first fucking joke, run off stage, disappear for ten days, and all you have to say is that you’re in fucking _Maine?”_ Peter stops, almost thinking it over. “What the fuck is in Maine?” He sounds more devastatingly confused than angry this time, but he quickly recovers. He rambles again, more about consequences and negative outcomes. The volume starts to hurt Richie’s head.

“I was born here.”

“Who gives a shit? All these years and _now_ you wanna talk about your fucking childhood? No more ‘I don’t like to think about it’ or excuses about your shit memory? Where the fuck was this when—”

“One of my best friends just killed himself.” Drunk and sad and scared, the words come out before he means them to. Memories of Stan find him, a honey-glow smile and sharp-tongued wit. His heart aches and he distracts himself with another burn in the back of the throat — more whiskey.

He’ll tell the truth, at least a version of it. Peter’s rage stops, frozen and silent from the other end of the line. It’s eerie, not even background noise from wherever he’s answering from. Perhaps he should have phrased it a little nicer for the sore subject.

“Oh my god,” Peter’s voice grows soft, a familiar but infrequent tone, “I’m so sorry, Rich.” The quiet hurts. Too many seconds pass by with nothing to distract him, memories flood where the noise used to be — bitter ones.

“Yeah, me too.” He refills his glass.

“Are you alright?” But, before he can answer, Peter sighs. “That’s a stupid question, never mind. Are you at least holding up okay?”

“I mean, no.” Richie can’t lie about that if he tried, there are too many reasons. “I hadn’t spoken to him in a couple of years but, shit, I’ve known him since I was a kid.” Head fuzzy from the drinks and emotionally exhausted but still running on fumes, he can’t beat himself up for saying ‘a couple’ instead of ‘almost thirty.’ Peter will believe him anyway and he remembers why they’re friends. He is the only person in the world that made Richie feel anything close to the level of understanding that Eddie has, maybe _had_ now. Richie’s brain runs with the idea, spiraling ever downward until Peter talks again.

“Is that why you took off?”

“I got the call right before the show started.”

“Jesus,” he sighs, “I don’t even know what to say, man. That’s awful.”

“It gets worse.”

“How the fuck does it get worse than that?”

“Another friend was up here and he…something bad happened. No one knows if he’s gonna make it, but they transferred him to Portland so I’ve been here.” Talking about it almost breaks the dam, it chips away at the foundation until he’s terrified the water will break free and drown him. What’s worse, though he’s not entirely sure, is he wouldn’t really mind.

“I haven’t stopped visiting but he isn’t waking up, if he doesn’t pull through I’m scared of how I’m gonna end up. I don’t—I _can’t_ lose him too.” Then, it’s quiet again. Richie pours himself yet another drink and he wants to say thank you. Thanks for not asking why he’s the one staying at the hospital, thanks for not asking why he’s so torn up about it, thanks for not asking anything even though he’s sure he wants to. But, the appreciation ends.

“I want to ask something shitty and you have to know I’m only asking because I’m worried,” Peter says. Nausea takes hold of Richie’s throat. The room still spins, his knees wobbling from the momentum. He refills his glass again. How many did he drink? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he cares either. A noise, disgusted, escapes his mouth.

“I _know_ I don’t have to ask this, but you’re not drinking, are you?” His voice shrinks at the question and it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself that’s not true. But, the lack of an answer is enough of one. “Rich, look, I know you’re going through a lot right now. I can’t even try to understand how difficult things must be, but—”

“I’m not, I’m...wouldn’t.” More guilt. He might be more guilt than human. “Okay, yeah, maybe I have been. But, I have a handle on it.” Peter’s taken care of him far too much for this to be the way he repays him. He knows what his mind jumped to, the worst-case scenario: a call where Richie was the one dead or comatose. He doesn’t want to think about it, but regret itches beneath his skin; he knows better than to think Peter actually believes him.

“Yeah, well, even if you don’t, you know I’m here for you and nothing will change that.” Richie can’t respond, so he changes the subject instead.

“How are we gonna fix what I did?”

“There’s no we. You just focus on the day-to-day shit, I’ll handle the rest,” he says, leaping into work mode already, “I can have Harley put out a statement about a vague personal crisis that required you to take time for yourself and we’ll refund the tickets for the shows you’re missing.”

“Makes it sound like I’m going to rehab again.” Richie tries to laugh and pours another drink, he doesn’t even remember finishing the one before. The taste isn’t there anymore, not even the burn in his throat, but he feels less broken and that’s enough to make him keep the bottle close by.

“She’ll figure out the wording. It might be hard to make it sound like anything else, people already think you had some kind of drug-related breakdown. We can get past this. Worst comes to worst, your career gets put on the back burner for a while. That’d probably be good for you anyway,”

“You should call Feiyan too. She’s worried and kind of sidelined at this point, she’s paid by the hour, you know.”

“I’ll get around to it.” He doesn’t think he can talk to her right now. Or anyone, really, but Peter needed to know he wasn’t dead. “I think I’m gonna sleep.”

“Just make sure you call me if you need anything, alright? Nothing is too much to ask.”

“Will do,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it. How could he ask for any of the things that he needs? He needs Stan alive. He needs Eddie to wake up. He needs to stop feeling scared all the time. He needs to stop seeing the deadlight visions in his nightmares. He can’t ask for any of it, so he hangs up instead.

A new bottle comes with him, the first one with barely anything left, and the Television is too loud; Richie mutes it, staring at the changing patterns without being able to take any of the actual sights in. He keeps drinking, not bothering to use a glass, until he blacks out.

When the rest of the Losers come back, they find him sprawled across his and Beverly’s bed, disheveled and out cold with the empty bottle still in his hand. He doesn’t stir when she lays with him, fingers combing through his greasy curls until she’s too tired to worry.

In the morning, he’s alone again. The only message on his phone is from Bill, telling him that they went out for food and to text if he wants anything. He ignores it, dragging himself across the room to find a note on the cabinet where his alcohol used to be, all replaced with water bottles — a reminder to take care of himself. But, with vague feelings that sleep gifted him another nightmare, he gets in his car and drives to the closest liquor store.

⬥⬩⬥⬩⬥

The doctors say the scars will be permanent. A lot of it is permanent; numbness and pain that will last the rest of his life, however long that’ll end up being. No one is sure how long he’ll be unconscious, but he’s been in and out of surgery for the past few days.

Richie can only pay attention to what the doctors say about his condition because he has to make decisions. Mostly, he looks at the flowers — forget-me-nots and white heathers, a bouquet sent by Bill after he had to leave for the airport — because he can’t bring himself to look at him. Every time he tries, the guilt swarms like locusts.

But, he can only avoid it for so long; he needs to memorize the details of his face, just in case he never sees it again while he’s still breathing (even if he isn’t, if it’s just the machine doing it for him). He can remember the younger version of him, etched into his brain forever now, it’s only fair he remembers this one too; he tries to remind himself that they’re the same, that this Eddie is the same one he knew so long ago, but with little progress.

Now, he doesn’t look at anything, face pressed against the edge of the bed and hand clasping Eddie’s. Sitting so hunched over hurts his back, but it’s no worse than what sleeping in this chair did to it.

Sometimes, he hears a nurse slip in to check vitals. When he’s not in the way, they’re kind enough to act like he’s not there at all. They do talk to Eddie, though, small conversation or updates on the world, and it reminds him that he should probably be doing the same. They’d explained it to him at some point when he was too disoriented to listen.

He waits until he’s alone again, but can’t find the words. What does he even say? Sorry you’re in a coma that’s all my fault, here’s what I heard on the news last night? He considers reading, as there’s a number of e-books on his phone, and rejects it when he remembers he can’t turn it on around the machinery. He considers old routines and rejects that when he remembers how shitty they are. Eventually, all he can think of are the stories Eddie’s missed out on — twenty-seven years’ worth.

“I dropped out of college after a year,” Richie says, “I thought I’d like it but it just made me fuckin’ miserable. For a bit, I tried to just tough it out for my parents’ sake but that didn’t last very long.” He feels ridiculous, cheeks warm and red, but keeps going. His parents _were_ angry when they found out, only for so long. He doesn’t want to say what made him finally do it.

“I moved to Chicago and worked my ass off doing shows whenever. For about a year, I was homeless. I got fired from a shit job waiting tables and couldn’t afford food, let alone rent. One of the lowbrow clubs started offering me steady gigs after a while, though, got me enough buzz to branch out.” He’s sure the place is closed now, it was likely driven out of business after folks started renovating the places nearby. And something in him should probably be sad, but he doesn’t feel anything.

“That’s how Peter scouted me, pure fuckin’ chance — he was still an assistant. God, I’m fucking old.” Richie makes himself sit up, a dull pain radiating from his lower back, and leans back in the chair.

“He got all my information and gave it to his boss, then they signed me,” he says. He makes it sound less bittersweet than it actually was on the off chance he can hear him; he still has to watch his mouth. “And _I did_ write my own material at first, despite what you think. I loved what I did and the jokes were funnier than they are now but, after five years of lying, it got old. Or, I guess, it was me that got old,"

“I got stuck in a rut, didn’t feel like making anything new. They didn’t mind at first, said it happened to everyone, but a few months went by and they changed their tune. Threatened to drop me if I didn’t start producing new material because I was wasting money.” A machine beeps, making him flinch, and he feels ridiculous. Is this even supposed to help? It’s not like Eddie will suddenly wake up and respond. Can he even hear this? Despite the doubts, Richie decides to keep talking to him.

“What’s fucked up is I didn’t care, after years of working toward this huge thing I’d wanted for all my life, I didn’t care. Peter had a last-ditch effort to convince me not to bail, but—” Richie’s throat closes. His eyes find the scar on Eddie’s face, curved along his cheek and starch white. He wonders what was going through his head when Henry attacked him. Does he feel guilty about killing him? Or at peace with defending himself? Yet another deeply distressing experience gifted by courtesy of Derry.

“I can’t fucking do this shit,” he mutters. His limbs ache when he stands, even worse when he walks, but he can’t stay in that room. He wanders to the visitor’s center, empty for the first time since he’s gotten here, and paces until he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“You alright?” His heart slows when he recognizes Mike’s voice, turning around to see a sympathetic smile. He looks well-rested for the first time since he’s seen him again, more alive; if he squints, he can see the resemblance to the Mike he knew as a kid, still as sweet but less worn down from living in Derry for so long. He’s angry for him, trapped and tormented without a chance to leave. It was the last thing any of them wanted.

“Rich?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I got you breakfast,” he says, holding up two paper bags and a coffee cup, “I hope you still like coconut macaroons, ‘cause I almost bought out the café. You can’t turn those down after a whole week of nothing.”

“Why, Michael, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were trying to guilt me into eating.”

“Is it working? Because, if not, I also went to a totally separate place for this breakfast sandwich and then another place for the coffee. They're the best-rated places in town too.” He wiggles the cup in his face, a contagious smile blooms when he takes it, but still holds out the bags. Richie hesitates in reaching for them.

“What kinda sandwich?”

“Sausage, egg, and pepper jack cheese on an everything bagel.”

“Did they have—”

“Hot sauce?” Mike’s smile only grows, he has him and he knows it. “They absolutely did.”

“Damn you and your brilliant, delicious guilt-tripping,” he mutters, snatching up the bags and plopping into a seat beside him. He goes for the sandwich first and talks between mouthfuls. Okay, so, maybe he _was_ hungry. “I needed a break. Talking to him isn’t much fun if he can’t talk back.”

“Do you think it really works?”

“I think I read something once that what a person hears depends on the case. Who knows though, maybe we’re just making asses out of ourselves,” Richie says. Mike recognizes the tone of his voice, a little too well, and feels glad that he showed up when he did. Though Richie tries to stay as long and as often as possible, it wears him down so easily — more than anyone else. The coffee helps the exhaustion, but it’s not what he’d rather be drinking.

“I know you threw out my liquor, by the way. Or at least hid it.”

“Poured out in the sink, actually. Ben suggested watering it down, but Bev dumped it.”

“I can’t sleep without it.”

“There are better ways to do that,” he argues, “drinking yourself into a blackout every night isn’t one of them.” There’s a part of him that wonders if Richie’s always been a borderline alcoholic; maybe this isn’t just because of Eddie. He hates that he’s unfamiliar with his life, split up for so long that he doesn’t know his best friends anymore, not in the way he used to. At the same time, he doesn’t think he wants to peek behind that curtain. There are probably darker things lurking there, heartbreaking and painful in a way none of them need to deal with right now. For the moment, it’s enough to still know the Richie that he remembered the breakfast order for.

“It’s not about getting to sleep, it’s about _staying_ asleep.”

“They won’t let you in here if you’re drunk all the time.”

“Kind of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

“No. You’re not that good a liar, you know.” Richie shrinks beneath his voice, avoiding his eyes, and apologizes under his breath. Mike just sighs, putting a hand on his back and rubbing circles into the fabric of his shirt. Actions like this set his brain alight, spiraling into confusion and excitement for the sudden feeling of another person's hands on him. It's sad, if he thinks about it for too long, that the concept is so foreign to him. “We understand, though, Rich. It’s not like anyone can blame you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, you know what it means.” He starts to chuckle, but the look on Richie’s face, stern and serious, makes him stare at him. “I mean, you were always inseparable, you almost—”

 _“Don’t,”_ Richie says coldly. He tries to come across as angry, or at least annoyed, but all that comes across is fear and dread. An unspoken apology, he pats his leg. An unspoken acceptance, he squeezes his hand.

“I get it if you don’t wanna talk about this with me.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Maybe not, but you know you’re gonna have to talk to _somebody._ Bev is about ready to shake it out of you.” He nudges him, seeing the slightest nod. Richie’s avoided being alone with her for a reason. “You should tell him what happened once he's up too, even if it’s scary. He deserves to know.” He nods again, appetite gone (at least half a breakfast sandwich is better than nothing).

He tries to convince himself that he’s scared for different reasons, perhaps Beverly only wants to talk about the sudden spike in his drinking or how hard it’s been to look any of the Losers in the eye. He knows, truly, that it’s about the sewers; they can’t possibly have forgotten. It crackles in between each moment of silence, especially with what else they’d heard.

“Mike?” Richie makes himself look over, silently asking for permission to broach a personal topic. He only offers a smile in answer, just as sincere as the ones he’d give as a kid, and it makes Richie feel even worse. Guilty.

“Why did you stay?” It changes the entire atmosphere, setting off a powder keg they didn’t know was there — now, it’s too late to be careful.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, lying.

“Like, it was never our job to do anything about IT, no one ever asked us to and we still tried. You could’ve just left like the rest of us and not had to remember it all.”

“There were a lot of times I wanted to. Remembering was… _is_ painful, especially when I knew I was the only one.” Swimming in, if not flooding, his eyes is something sorrowful and haunting. Richie should drop it, because he knows this isn’t an easy conversation to have, but it nags at him incessantly. It wasn't _fair._

“So, why stay?”

“I guess I didn’t know which would feel worse.” He shrugs again and, this time, he’s telling the truth. “The memories weren’t all bad.”

“Lots of ‘em were.” Somewhere in his tone, Richie tries to make a joke and, miraculously, he gets Mike to smile.

“Yeah, most of them,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “but not all of them. I got to remember you guys and that wasn’t something I wanted to let go of.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. Mike looks at him, confused, and shame boils him alive. He feels like he ought to be screaming it for the entire world to hear. _I'_ _m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry you were alone. I’m sorry we all left. I’m sorry I couldn’t remember._ Tears threaten him again, barely quelled by the steadiness of the hand on his knee.

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything,” he says. His voice walks, unstable, on the shaky legs of a newborn deer. Every day has felt like this as of late, decades of things to say finally have an opportunity to slip out at any moment. Maybe they knew about the powder keg all along.

“You were _alone_ and you should _hate_ me! I didn’t—”

“No one knew, Rich. How could I be mad when I know that, if you remembered, you would’ve been there? Nothing else matters. It would have been easier for you to ignore it when I called and just go on with your life, but you didn't. None of you did."

“You deserved so much better than what you got,” he says softly, “I know everyone thinks it. They probably said it too. But, after you talked to us at the Jade, it was all I could think about. You were trapped in a shithole for _years_ because you were too nice to turn a blind eye to the kids of racist assholes who made your life a living hell.” Those words set off another powder keg and the smell of the gunpowder stings in Richie’s nose, familiar. Mike just breathes, albeit shaky, and forces a smile. This is too heavy a conversation to finish here and they both know it.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” Then, Mike sighs and the tension dissipates in a way it probably shouldn’t. “Any change from the last time I was here?”

“Nothing huge, nurses swapped out after the morning shift ended and the doctor said his lung is almost completely healed. If he wakes up soon then he won’t have to worry about that. Concussion’ll be gone too.”

“That’s good, at least.” Richie tries not to scoff at him.

“Yeah, he’ll only have to deal with the other medical repercussions of being impaled,” he mumbles. Mike frowns, not wanting to be reminded if he can help it, and Richie apologizes; he's been having to do that a lot. He keeps the food for his sake but throws out the empty cup when he stands. Mike wishes him a safe ride, but the car finds its way to the liquor store again despite best efforts to go home.


	2. the landmine is me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have come up with a new simile to describe myself lately. It can be yours. Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spent the rest of the day putting the pieces together.”  
> — Ray Bradbury

**JULY 2016**

Their nineteenth day in Portland is, in a word, chaotic. Ben can’t justify another week away from work and his coworkers are drowning in problems without him, so he leaves for his flight earlier than any of the other Losers can wake up.

Taped to the inside of the hotel door, he leaves an address for them to go to; a gift to compensate for being unable to stay, though they all understand why he has to go. After following the instructions, they realize he rented them an Airbnb until the end of September and, upon walking in, they know he spared no expense.

The living room is a designer’s paradise — emerald green walls, golden accents, and monochrome furniture. Their bedrooms are better, one for each of them in different palettes and an extra for when Eddie wakes up. But the kitchen, fully stocked with food, is the best part. There are more notes taped to the fridge and flowers in a vase on the island. Richie’s sprawled out on the couch in moments, feet hanging off the edge of one arm and head propped up against the other.

“I could marry Ben right about now,” Mike says, “if I had to keep listening to Richie’s snoring I would’ve gotten another hotel room.” He goes straight for the fridge, piling high a tower of ingredients for breakfast burritos that he doesn’t hesitate to start on.

“I don’t know how the fuck he put this all together so fast.” Beverly grabs the orange juice and champagne for mimosas, making sure to keep them from Richie’s reach. It doesn’t go unnoticed, but he doesn’t bother to say anything; he’s taken to a hidden flask, not having to worry them.

“Yeah, he—” Mike stops, grabbing his phone from his back pocket at the sound of the ringtone. Something in him shifts when he looks at the screen, and it almost looks like he's afraid. “I’m, uh, I’ll be right back. Can you take over for me?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, speed walking out the front door and slamming it shut behind him.

“That wasn’t ominous or foreboding at all,” Richie says. He glances at the door and makes a face. “Think he’s got a mistress or something?”

“Come help me with this.” Beverly waves him over and he groans, forcing himself up from his spot with more effort than he cares to admit. They find an unspoken rhythm, she dices onions and peppers while he starts browning the ground meat.

Every so often, he looks over his shoulder and finds the pale skin of her arms that used to host bruises; she’s started wearing shorter sleeves without them now. However, even faded away, he can remember exactly where they were.

The main problem of being separated for so long, among the many others, is the anticipation. There are things they have to talk about and not all of them are good. If they’re truly honest with themselves, almost _none_ of them are good. Every moment of silence between two or more Losers feels like the nagging anxiety before a difficult, but necessary, conversation.

They’ve had a few of them already. Mike has opened up about feeling abandoned after talking to Richie, Ben confessed to his loneliness, and Bill is expected to break down about his survivor’s guilt any day now. The others require a bit more effort to urge into talking, but the anticipation doesn’t go away.

“Hey, Bev?” Richie asks carefully. She looks up from the cutting board and over at him, the echo of a soft smile on her lips. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. It’s kind of big.” She frowns when he stops talking, side-eyeing him.

“What, no dick joke?”

“I mean, if you _want_ me to, then—” Beverly kicks him in the shin when she turns around, balancing the carton of eggs on top of a skillet he doesn’t know where she found.

“Hit me with your best shot, Trashmouth, but I get to ask something too.” She lights the stove, nudging him with her hip, and starts cooking. A shit-eating grin blooms, another idea to make her laugh popping up in his head.

“Quid pro quo. Yes or no?” He uses his best Hannibal Lecter voice, far better than he thought it'd be after no practice, and the smile reaches Beverly too. “Yes or no, Clarice? Poor little Catherine is waiting.”

“Go, Doctor,” she says, using the best southern accent she can, and breaks into a laugh. The sound is a melody to him, one lost to time that he didn’t realize he was missing. Having the Losers back is like an entire goddamn symphony, he just wishes it was complete.

The soft, lazy laughter starts to die down and Richie just looks at her, trying not to make it so obvious that he is. He finds comfort in the sight, furrowed brows and tongue sticking out when she concentrates — he loves how she still does that. It’s a small reminder that, under all the horror, they must be the same people at heart, and that has to mean something.

“If you don’t wanna talk about it, we don’t have to. It’s not really my business,” he starts to say. Beverly looks at him, hand on her hip, and he stops.

“This is about Tom, isn’t it?” Richie’s barely surprised that she knows, nodding slightly. She doesn’t miss a beat, going back to the food. She starts adding shredded cheese, among other things, without looking up and he adds the vegetables to the meat. It's some scrap of normalcy to hang onto for this conversation, but the flames make it hard to focus. Sweat is starting to build up the longer they stand over the stove. Damn heatwave. It’ll only get worse.

“Alright,” she says, bracing for whatever comes next, “what about him?”

“Are you okay? Like, he _died_ and I don’t want to make assumptions about anything but he seemed like a total—”

“Monster? He was.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s just, there were more important things to focus on. I don’t know. I didn’t have the time to think about it when you guys were in danger too. Then, there was Eddie and...” She sees how his shoulders drop, guilty for reminding him (not that it ever leaves his mind). This morning has been the closest they've ever gotten to pretending this is just a vacation they're taking together, as if so much tragedy hasn't struck to cause their gathering.

“There wasn’t time.”

“But, now that you’ve had time?” Richie prompts. Beverly takes a sharp breath, perhaps just getting the chance to give it thought or the chance to avoid it being stolen. He knows that both are probably true. Eddie’s been their main focus for weeks, and thinking about life before seeing them again makes him depressed too.

“I feel like I knew, deep down, that I deserved better than him but something always kept me from realizing it. Because, god, I hated him. I was _terrified_ of him, but I could never bring myself to leave. I don’t know if it was IT’s fault or my own, maybe both,”

“And I know I don’t have any reason to, but I think about him lying in that cavern and still feel bad about it all. Is that horrible?” She looks to him as if wanting the true answer, but they both know he doesn’t have it. Instead, he tells her what he thinks. It’s all he can offer and he hopes, for once, that it’s enough.

“I don’t think that's horrible,” he says softly, “you’re used to suffocating, you know? Spent so long without air that you don’t remember how to breathe anymore. You just need to teach yourself.” And Beverly busts out laughing again, almost doubled over and crying. He can't tell if all of it is happy and stays cautious, in case the tears will melt into something real.

“What? I was being serious.”

“No, no, I know,” she says, the ghost of her laughter still lingering, “and it was great, it’s just, when the fuck did your advice get all profound? I thought this was gonna be a ‘you can always find another dick because men ain’t shit’ type of thing.”

“Well, that’s still right, we are a truly horrible species, but fuck you! I’ve always been great at giving advice. It’s one of my _many_ talents.” He shoves her and she shoves right back, because that’s a lie if they’ve ever heard one. When the food is finally ready, they pour the contents of each skillet into a huge bowl and stir, grabbing tortillas and sour cream to start assembling.

For a moment, Richie grieves. His heart aches at the glimpse it was given of a life with her in it, where they could’ve had conversations like this all the time and, just maybe, avoided ending up where they did. Then, it’s gone.

“How are you gonna do it?” he asks.

“Do what? Stop feeling bad?”

“Teach yourself to breathe again.”

“I don’t know. I think I just need to learn how to be myself, all alone this time.” Something about the idea makes her frown, contemplating it far beyond what it needs to be. He waits for her because he knows there’s more, there usually is with her. He’d learned long ago that a girl — a woman now, he supposes — like Beverly expresses herself in waves and he’s always ready to catch the next one.

“But?”

“But, I’m not stupid,” she sighs, “I know Ben has feelings for me and I’m still figuring out how _I_ feel about it. I don’t know if I can love somebody again for a while.”

“So fall in love with yourself first,” Richie says, nonchalant, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that.” She tries to laugh again, but all that comes is a small force of air through her nose. Tears form, a fight to keep them at bay, because she doesn’t want this moment to be sad. They’ve had enough sad moments for a lifetime.

“You know, when we were kids, I thought you should’ve been my soulmate.” She means it. She loves him dearly and they would have been good for each other — they’re good for each other now, even if it isn’t that kind of love they share. Richie chuckles, half-hearted, and she knows why, but she makes a face anyway.

“What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing! You’re truly a catch, Bev, I just remember you creaming your spinach over Big Bill when we were kids. The only reason you took me up on that movie date was because of the free popcorn.”

“I just mean it would’ve been easier if we’d loved each other like that.” The weightlessness of the air suddenly becomes anything but. His fingers curl around the edge of the counter, white from the force, and he can barely recover from it. He used to wish, so desperately, and sometimes _pray_ that he could just love her instead, to love any girl rather than love Eddie.

All he can do is try not to think about it, squeeze his eyes shut, and pretend the words didn’t gut him the instant he heard them. Of course, Beverly knows that they did. She puts her hand over his and tries to ease the feeling without talking about it. It works, almost. Richie pulls away from her and clears his throat.

“Alright, what’s your big something to ask?” He tries to return to the food, but he can _feel_ her staring through him and she senses the fear. She has the uncanny talent of knowing when to push and when to ease off; with the Losers, more than anyone else, it’s the strongest.

“Nothing, it’s not that important.” He's about to argue, because he’s sure he knows what it’s meant to be, but the door opens before his mouth can. On Mike’s face is an indecipherable expression, not good and not bad but _something._ He holds up his phone, screen off, and sits at the counter.

“I don’t even know how to say this without sounding crazy, but I just got a call from Stan,” he says. Richie and Beverly go still, there isn’t a reaction big enough. Is it right? They know what they heard, that phone call full of his wife’s crying voice. If it _is_ right _,_ what does it mean? Did they really kill IT?

Richie feels her grab his hand, squeezing so tight it almost hurts. He doesn’t ask her to stop. Shared glances, wary and hesitant. His esophagus feels cut short by a few inches and the contents of his stomach shift and swirl like wet cement.

“Does...does that mean that—”

“Another trick from IT, probably. It has to be.”

“Which part is the trick?” They look back to Mike, who takes a huge swig from a mimosa and doesn't give a single damn whose it was meant to be. The expression makes more sense now, overwhelmed and frazzled and _relieved._

“He’s been in the hospital for the past few weeks. Patty found him before he died, said that she never even got a call from us while we were in Derry.” His drink is gone like that and Richie’s skin crawls. Maybe he can swing by the liquor store on the way back from visiting Eddie tomorrow; he's out of stuff to refill his hip flask with.

“Do you think the call was IT?”

“I don’t see any other possibility,” he shrugs. It makes sense why he was gone for so long too, how suddenly he got up to leave. None of them are sure what this means now.

“So, he’s okay?”

“He’s getting on a plane to Portland as soon as he can.”

⬥⬩⬥⬩⬥

The heatwave continues to make everything worse. Every walk to and from a car, every trip to take out the trash, every indoor activity that requires any additional effort whatsoever — it ends with the remaining Losers sweaty and miserable. The house’s air conditioning tries to keep up as much as it can, but it can only do so much. With indoor temperatures over seventy-five, dangerously close to eighty, they’ve slowly decided to forgo clothing.

It was only awkward for the first day, before they realized they’d already gone through intense childhood trauma together, so what’s seeing each other naked now? From shorts and tank tops to practically nothing at all, the only time they’re dressed is when they have to go somewhere or get food delivered. So, when the doorbell rings in the early morning, they scramble to get decent enough to answer it and Richie gets there first.

“Hi, I’m looking for—” The man stops, expression softening and eyes shining. “Trashmouth,” he muses. That’s all it takes for Richie to realize it’s Stan. He stares, dumbfounded, then they have their arms thrown around each other in an instant, with muscles that ache with the tension of squeezing so tight, and the tears find them just as fast.

 _“Shit,_ man, get the fuck inside.” He ushers him in, only to make him stop after the door shuts behind him and turns toward the rest of the house. “Put some clothes on, we’ve got a guest!” he yells, already aware of the weird expression Stan wears. He turns back to him and shrugs. “Heatwaves, ya know?”

“I don’t think any amount of heat could justify having to see your dick.”

“You wound me, Staniel,” he puts his hand over his heart, “but we can stop doing that if you want.”

“I mean, what’s your dick compared to a murderous, cosmic clown?”

“The fact you even _implied_ my dick could be worse than a murderous, cosmic clown is grounds for treason.” He grabs Stan’s bag for him, lugging it down the hall, but only makes it so far. Where Mike is totally still upon seeing him, Beverly leaps into action. The force of her body hitting his cuts him off from anything he tries to say, arms squeezing just as tight around him as Richie’s (maybe more so).

There’s a lot of crying, too ugly to be compared to something poetic or desirable. All four of them are huddled together in the middle of the living room’s door frame. The edge of it digs into Mike's back and Richie tries not to trip over the suitcase as he balances on one leg. The closeness and shallow breaths don’t help the heat — even Stan, acclimated to southern humidity, starts to sweat. But, they don’t pull away until it’s entirely unbearable.

“So, how’s everything with Eddie?” he asks. The question sucks out any good feeling from the room and eyes fall onto Richie, who shifts his weight to one side and grimaces.

“Do you wanna see him?”

“They’ll let me in?”

“'Course, I can drive you when you’re ready.” He expects him to wait, to be exhausted from the three hour flight and yearning for a few moments to rest, but he stands up a little straighter, trying to hide the anticipation. Richie doesn't need to hear his answer to grab the keys from the counter, and they're on their way before Stan bothers to unpack.

"How's he doing?" he asks, glancing over from the passenger's window.

"Uh, good. The more minor stuff's healed up, but there's still weeks for some of the rest." Months, if he's being realistic. The stitches in his stomach will take half a year to dissolve — if he makes it that long, but neither of them wants to focus on that. "They said he'll have some mobility issues for the rest of his life, like muscle pain and shit, and'll probably get short of breath easier." A cruel irony, he thinks, that Eddie spent his entire life thinking it was hard to breathe and, now, he has to deal with it forever.

"He's still not awake, then?"

"Sort of. He opens his eyes and makes noises sometimes, but he won't really respond to anything." He can see Stan making a face out of the corner of his eye. "It started a few days ago, they called it a vegetative state."

"Shit," he mumbles, "does that mean he's getting better?" All Richie can offer is a shrug, and the rest of the ride continues in silence. He tells him to text him when he's ready to come home, that he'll drive over as soon as he sees it, but he waits in the parking lot, unwilling to be too far away from either of them.

He passes the time looking at his phone, answering texts from Peter about pictures of him around Portland beginning to pop up from the paparazzi and reading the PSA that Harley sent out on his behalf. He will have to leave the Airbnb less, and try to look unrecognizable when he does.

The worst part is all the articles about him that coincide with the recent pictures; they discuss all the possibilities for him to be seen coming and going from a random hospital in Maine and, obviously, none of them are right. They also have a field day with the fellow sightings of Bill and Beverly, he's sure they've read about it too.

Hours have passed when Stan texts him, and he waits a few minutes before pulling up to the entrance to pick him up. He asks if he can drive, but the snide remark about Richie’s poor driving skills is absent, and gets behind the wheel. They drive off without another word and the radio is off, no Top 40s song or bland radio show or even static to cut through the silence. Richie’s left to sit with it and this time, much like many others lately, he’s unable to fill it with jokes.

He knows how difficult it is to visit Eddie. More specifically, he knows how difficult it is to _leave_ Eddie. No amount of optimism or great changes in his condition can wash away lingering fears. Each goodbye has the potential to be the last time they see him alive. If any, the changes have made him feel worse. Seeing Eddie smile or hearing him hum with no reasoning behind it only hurts more, it encapsulates all the false-hope he's been trying to avoid.

They’re three blocks away from the Airbnb when Stan pulls over. There aren’t any cars on the suburban back road, only worn down houses and unkempt yards; it's a part of the town so far untouched by the recent gentrification. Some of the only signs of human life are the porch lights, slicing through the ever-growing dark.

The sky seems purple, about to be eclipsed by black clouds, and something deep in Richie’s chest, though smothered, is happy. It seldom rains in California and he’s missed summer storms. Still, he doesn’t say anything, not even after the heavy breath Stan lets loose from his lungs.

A street lamp comes on above them, finally set off, and lightning splinters across the sky as if trying to compete with its fluorescence. Stan's fingers are curled around the steering wheel and his nails press crescents into the leather. Richie tries not to look at him. Instead, he watches the empty intersection far ahead of them — where the stop lights turn, but no one passes through. He wants to offer to drive, but his voice is still gone.

“I don’t even know where to start.” Stan glances over to him, lost.

“Okay,” he says softly. Forcing his gaze away from the traffic signals, he meets his eyes and finds the threatening glisten of tears. It scares him; it means this is serious, no jokes or gross comments can help him weasel his way out (even if he was up to making them).

“And I don’t want you to be upset from what I’m about to ask.”

“Okay,” he says again. But, even with permission and a promise, Stan hesitates. He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and Richie’s heart stumbles. More than before, he reminds him of the boy he knew in Derry decades ago, the one with lighter colored curls and less smiling-induced crow’s feet. He’s braver now, sitting up and looking at him again. Richie’s impatient anyway, too anxious to wait.

“Dude, don’t fuckin’ drag this out and torture me.”

“There’s not an easy way to say it,” he snaps.

“Then, don’t try!” The air is heavy and they’re both restrained by it. They look at nothing, but face each other while the tension — the _silence_ — drags on and on and on and on. It’s almost suffocating until, at last, thunder shakes the ground and rain pours down. Stan sighs.

“What happens if Eddie doesn’t make it?” he asks, a little too loud. Richie’s expression melts into something pitiful and his posture along with it; he slumps against the seat, unnerved. The glisten threatens him now too.

“I don’t know,” he says. The words have never sounded so genuine although, somewhere in the back of his head, he has an inkling of an idea.

“Mike told me what IT said.” At first, there’s confusion. IT said a lot of things and not one of them was short of unsettling. Then, there’s fear, but Richie’s too drained to react. There’s been so much fear, how could he not be desensitized to it now? He hopes it stays this way.

“He told me everything, actually. I don’t care to remember, that severed head shit was enough to make me feel nauseated, but I can’t stop thinking about some of it.” The first tears fall when Stan glances at him. He knows what this is about now.

 _Kill me? KILL me?_ _  
_ He’d hoped the Losers would forget it.   
_You can’t even kill yourself, Trashmouth._ _  
_ How could they hold onto that when there were so many other things to focus on?   
_Oops! Was that a secret? So many secrets!_ _  
_ With the prospect of dying, surely there wasn’t enough time for them to pay attention.   
_Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll do it for ya if you’re still inclined._   
He doesn’t know why he expected anything else.   
I’LL DO IT FOR YA! HELL, I’LL DO IT FOR FREE!

He remembers the look on Eddie’s face when he’d heard; it was a kind of terror IT hadn’t been able to conjure up before, one that must have been intoxicating. But, of course, it must have been nothing compared to the sight of Richie getting caught in the deadlights. The instant, paralyzing power suspending him midair, putting him at the mercy to whatever IT wanted to do to kill him. Richie shudders at the thought.

“What are you getting at?” he asks. He tries to sound mean but, now that he actually wants to be an asshole, it doesn’t work.

“I’m trying to ask if we need to be worried about you hurting yourself.” Stan’s voice fights itself to get it out in one piece and Richie goes still. Rain patters against the roof of the car and, for a fleeting moment, it’s peaceful, but that feeling disappears with another clap of thunder.

“Oh.”

“So I need you to tell me the truth.”

“Even if it’s the one you don’t want to hear?” His voice cracks and Stan looks at him, heartbroken. He knows the answer.

“Especially then.” There's a long, long pause. The rain fills it up, as if the world itself is eager to hear what will come next.

“You should be worried,” Richie admits. His heart races and hands twitch, he doesn’t know how to say this. The starch white bandages on Stan’s wrists only make it harder to try. Of course, it’s been going through his head. Nausea manifests itself as a bell-ringer, tugging on his esophagus to create a chiming song but all that comes out is a sob. Shame bubbles under his skin like molten, but Stan puts his hand on his shoulder and he hates himself a little less.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, “I know how it feels.” Richie glances at him, seeing a sad yet encouraging smile, and tries to breathe. Talking to Stan is always so easy for him, it’s a wonder he didn’t break down in hysterics and pour his heart out the moment he saw him at the door.

“Everyone _has_ somewhere, you know? Or something, or someone. Bill’s the most renowned fucking horror author ever and Ben’s got more success than anyone else would know what to do with. Mike is ready to travel the world and you’re like the poster-child for the perfect suburban life. So maybe Bev has shit to figure out because of her husband, but she’s Beverly, she’ll come out on top,”

“After this is over, however it ends, you guys will be fine. I have _nothing,”_ he spits out. The world is nothing but storms and silence, but Richie’s voice lingers beneath. He sits, dumbfounded, and his glassy eyes go wide as if just realizing how true his words are.

And they are true, he has nothing. The fake persona that’s responsible for his career’s success isn’t him, the money from those specials is thanks to a bunch of ghostwriters, and the townhouse he bought with that money is sad and empty. He’s not happy, he’s not sure if he’s ever been, and the weight of that knowledge, though not newfound, could shatter every bone in his body.

“Richie,” Stan whispers. It sounds like he wants to say more, but can’t figure out what it’ll be.

“I felt something, back in Derry, and a lot of it was bad.” He takes off his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. He’s glad he’s so blind, he can’t see Stan’s reaction to what he’s about to say. “But, seeing Eddie again was good. I felt good and I don’t...I don’t _feel_ that anymore. I thought, even if he had—” He stops himself. There are some things he can’t say yet. “I missed him, and I can’t go back to feeling how I did before I remembered who he was.”

_“Shit.”_

“Yeah, I know,” he chuckles, but it doesn’t entirely come out. He wipes his eyes again and puts his glasses back on; Stan looks overwhelmed, to say the least. They don't delve into it right now, but they know the other Losers have to be told to keep an eye on Richie, that the smallest actions or words could be unsettling on the best days and giant, red flags on the worst.

“I love you,” Stan says firmly, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze, “I don’t want you to forget that. Nothing can change it.” There’s something hidden, not so subtly, in those words and Richie can’t pretend he doesn’t notice, but he can refuse to acknowledge it.

“I love you too.” And, for the first time he’s ever said those words in his life, there’s no hesitation or uncertainty in his voice.

⬥⬩⬥⬩⬥

Stan, Mike, and Beverly make him eat breakfast; they don't give him much of a choice, hiding all the car keys until he sits down and clears the plate. He knows he shouldn’t be angry, because they’re just trying to make sure he’s taken care of, but something in Richie _screams_ at him to get to Eddie as soon as possible.

From the moment he opened his eyes and during each one since, he knows he has to be there. He can’t tell if the feeling is good or not, but he speeds to the hospital regardless, and how he avoids getting pulled over he has no idea. All that hums in his veins is that screaming, and it gets louder once he parks, an urgency to run and run and run until he reaches him.

He walks as fast as he can, slipping past everyone he can and managing to reach an elevator before it closes. He thinks the people standing with him try to make small talk, but it goes right over his head and he’s damn near leaping out when he reaches the ICU’s floor. Before he can take another step, Probably-Jeanie sees him and waves.

“Oh, hey, I was just about to ask them to call you.” She ushers him forward, a smile bright enough to disperse the nervousness but not bright enough to rid him of dread.

“Call me?” His stomach drops and her body is overcome with a sudden panic, desperate to quell the fear she has caused in his.

“Nothing bad!" She beckons him to follow her and he does, clinging to everything she says. "The opposite, actually, he's been up and aware for the past hour or so.” Then, he can't focus on anything at all. This was not the outcome he's been preparing himself for, how could he know how to react? All he can do is keep up, walking fast until he reaches the room.

He falls against the door frame when he gets to it, overwhelmed by the sight. Eddie — sitting up, awake, _okay._ He looks lost, with a blank expression and defeated posture, until he sees Richie. Then, his eyes soften, and the most genuine of smiles starts to pull on his chapped lips. The doctor talking to him notices the change and turns to find the cause.

“Good morning, Mr. Tozier,” she says, barely surprised. Richie can’t make himself look away from Eddie long enough to greet her back. “I was just about done. I can recap for you, if you’d like.”

“I, uh…” Finally, he tears his eyes away. “Yeah, that’d be great.” Then, he doesn’t listen to a single word that's said. He tries, at first, to make it seem like he does but he’s sure she can tell it’s going right out the other ear. She understands too, and leaves them to talk. It’s only afterward, still lingering on the outskirts of the room, that his brain catches up and retains the information, albeit vaguely — something about a ‘step-down’ floor and rehabilitation.

For one of the first times in his life, Richie has no goddamn clue what to say or do.

They just look at each other, entranced, and stay still. Neither of them is sure for how long, but Eddie can’t deal with it anymore. He glances between Richie and the chair next to his bed until he gets the hint, slowly dragging his feet and sitting down. He flinches when his hand finds his arm, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Is IT dead?” His voice is raspy and hoarse, blessed by weeks with an endotracheal tube down his throat and not using it for much beyond vague sounds. It’s a wonder he can talk at all. Admittedly, Richie should’ve expected the question, but it catches him off-guard. He manages a slight nod and it’s enough for Eddie to sigh in relief, nodding as well.

“They told me I died.”

“You did,” he says. And he tries not to notice, eyes preoccupied with the tile floor, but he can feel Eddie staring at him. He knows everything already, it was a test. If that’s the first thing he’d planned on doing, Richie doesn’t want to know what kind of treatment he’s used to getting from his wife. His subtle surprise at genuine honesty is already too big of a hint.

“Forty-nine seconds.” He stares at nothing, straight ahead of him. More words burn in Richie than before, ones he can’t let himself say. He can’t say that he _felt_ him die. He can’t say that he thought he’d be killed by the agony of it himself. He can’t say anything. In his periphery, though, he sees Eddie’s fingers graze the fabric of his hospital gown, right where the claw went through.

“How am I even alive right now?” There’s a hidden question, of if he’s alive at all, and they don't have much of an answer for that one.

“A miracle?” Richie guesses. It doesn’t matter that neither of them believe in those anymore, if they ever did to begin with. They will believe in them now and hope it's enough.

“I thought you were gonna die.”

_“Me?”_

“Yeah,” Eddie says, taking in a shallow breath, “in the deadlights. I thought you were gonna die, that’s how I hurt IT.”

“I think I was supposed to,” After days of asking, he had worn Beverly down — she told him what she saw in the deadlights too, that he'd die suspended in those pulsing lights and never float back down. He looks away, consumed with guilt, and flinches again when Eddie's touch travels from his arm to his hand, but still doesn't pull away. He's glad that he's not the one hooked up to the heart monitor, otherwise its quick spike in sound would give him away.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, desperate to change the subject. A small smile tugs on the corners of Eddie’s mouth and he rolls his eyes.

“Like I got impaled and spent two months unconscious. So, you know, fantastic.”

“I wasn’t fast enough,” Richie says softly, eyes avoiding his.

“What?” His limbs go limp, hand slipping back to his side, and he stares at him, in total disbelief.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t pull you out of the way fast enough. I saw what was gonna happen and I tried to stop it and I couldn’t. It’s my fault.” His posture is that of a dog being scolded for digging through the trash, shoulders slouched and head hanging low. He wants to be told off, or held responsible in some way, because nobody else will do it.

“You _saw?”_

“In the deadlights. You were gonna to die down there and, when I realized it hadn’t happened yet, I thought—”

“I didn’t die in the sewers, though," Eddie says, and Richie shuts up right away. He looks at him, eyes glassy, and finds a soft, sad smile to accompany the quick squeeze of his hand. It's now that he finally realizes he'd done all he could, and Eddie doesn't blame him for any of it. His heart settles, almost entirely at ease, until he remembers a few more things that need to be said. Perhaps it's not the right time, but he's never been good at measuring the appropriateness of his conversations.

“You made me your emergency contact." Eddie's eyebrows rise at this, ever so slightly, and he nods.

“Yeah, after the shitshow at the Jade.”

“Not Myra?”

“I know,” he pauses, a frown forming, “I don’t wanna talk about her right now.”

“We don’t have to.” He shifts in his seat and his hand slips out of Eddie’s grip. The touch still simmers on his skin, hot like sunlight and golden. He’d pictured this going differently. In the moments he’d allow himself some hope, he pictured being able to tell him how he feels — a huge, grand gesture of emotions and beautiful words pent up for almost three decades.

Instead, he can barely talk and Eddie’s shoulders drop. How could he dare to put him through so much? He’s barely been awake for more than an hour, two months of his life are missing, and he's left with permanent physical reminders of it. It’s the last thing he needs, hearing how pathetically in love he’s been with him for his entire life, even when he didn’t remember who he was. It’d be selfish, Richie thinks, to thrust so much upon him when he’s in such a fragile state.

“I, uh, I should call the Losers. They’re gonna be real excited to see you.” He starts to stand, fumbling to get his phone from his pocket, but Eddie touches his shoulder and he stills, unflinching this time. Everywhere he touches him, the nerves glow and glow and glow.

“Can we just...wait? For a little.” Something about the tone of his voice is desperate, however subdued, and Richie relaxes back into the chair. Once more, Eddie's hand finds his.

“Yeah, ‘course we can.”

“I missed having you around, you know. I never got to say that between all the Derry shit.” He leans his head against the pillow and yawns, drawing Richie's attention to just how exhausting this must be for him, how the pain medications must make it that much more difficult to fight off sleep.

"I missed you too." And Eddie hums in answer, poking somewhere along Richie's jawline and frowning before he shuts his eyes.

"You look like you haven't been eating," he mumbles. Then, he's asleep, and something about knowing he'll wake up makes Richie feel that much better about looking at him. He doesn't let go of his hand.


End file.
